Kaleidoscope
by Sundowhn
Summary: This is a story about the circumstances that have created a man called Kurt Darkholme. It also explores a remembered friendship that meant the world to one man, and never existed for the other.
1. Chapter 1

_Characters are the property of Marvel, I make nothing from this, etc. This is set in the main MU in spring of 2012, prior to the events of UXF #24. A special thanks to Karl for all his help in proof-reading this story._

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><p><em><strong>Prologue: The Desert in Spring<strong>_

_TWOKK_

The dagger hit just to the left of the intended target yet again. _Scheisse!_

_I need to compensate more for the wind this high up_, he thought. _Let's try again_. Kurt ambled towards the wooden board roughly cut into the shape of a man. His distinctive rolling gait, necessitated by his unusal feet, slowed as he paused briefly to look out over the late afternoon desert. Tail swishing lazily in the heat- laden air, he pondered the landscape, as always looking for changes and mentally marking defensive positions for when the need arose. Logan's assurances aside regarding the isolation and safety of this location, Kurt still felt like the proverbial sitting duck out here in such a barren, open environment.

He supposed, if he were inclined towards caring about such things any longer, the panoramic scene before him would be considered "pretty". The sky was pale blue and cloudless with a clarity not seen in his own world for more years than he cared to remember. Fading sunlight lit the desert floor and surrounding mesas in stunning tones of red and orange - something that might look hellish but for the signs of tenacious life dotting the landscape. Patches of sagebrush here, a lone cactus there - it broke the monotony of red in the shimmering heat. A small cloud of dust marked the zig-zagging path of a desert hare, and Kurt's pointed ears picked up the high screech of a bird of prey overhead just before he saw it dive with folded wings after its would-be dinner.

He took a deep breath of the dry air and held it briefly in his lungs before exhaling. That much, anyway, he liked of this world; he could breathe without the stench of death and decay coating the back of his throat. He could certainly do without this heat though. Dark indigo-colored fur made daytime excursions a fair misery. If it was this hot in April, he shuddered to think what it would be over the summer months.

Kurt reached out and yanked the knife from the plywood, sweat trickling from under his arms, down his sides. The white, sleeveless undershirt he wore in lieu of anything heavier, was long soaked. He irritably wiped the sweat from his eyes. _Ach! Diese schreckliche Hitze, _he muttered.

He also wasn't best pleased with the dust that puffed up at every step he took, coating his bare feet and lower legs exposed by the short pants he was wearing. He thought it made him look like an unkempt rug.

Returning to his original position, he noted the wind direction and modified his throw slightly. He curled his lip back in an unconcious half snarl, and narrowing his eyes, imagined another face in place of the blank target dummy. This time, he had the satisfaction of a perfectly executed hit.

_Gott_, but he was bored.

The mesa where he'd chosen to hone his skills sat near X-Force's base. It was not the tallest in the area, but it provided the best unobstructed view for several miles. Better still, it offered him the chance to be away from the sometimes stifling presence of his temporary teammates. It did little, however, to ease the boredom, or his increasing frustration at feeling cooped up. Kurt retrieved the dagger again, sighing grumpily before he disappeared in his trademark brimstone-smelling cloud to reappear in the artifically cooled interior of Cavern X.

"What a silly name for a base," he muttered. He was amused that no one had decided to paint a large "X" on the topside of the cavern - they certainly decorated everything else in that fashion around here. Team spirit was one thing, but really, these people took it to extremes.

He listened for signs of the others as he went first into the kitchen for a cool drink, then on to his room to shower. In the hallway, he heard sounds of a television in the distance - Wade probably. That imbecile spent the majority of his down time parked in the team's living area in front of the TV, stuffing his misshapen face.

Perhaps that is part of my problem, Kurt mused. _It has been so long since I have had "down time" I no longer remember what to do with myself._

His own world was certainly not one that encouraged relaxation. Every minute of recent years had been about survival, it seemed. Fighting, planning, scraping the already stretched resources of a post-apocalyptic world, just to ensure another week of survival - his days there had been full to overflowing. It was difficult for him to adjust to the change here, he found. He wondered what it said about him, that he seemed do better with struggle and hardship over just living.

Kurt heard nothing else on his route, which was not entirely surprising. It was unlikely for Betsy to be present here; her recent personal problems and other obligations kept her away except when necessary. He preferred her absence. Even as familiar as he was in working with Jean back home, the presence of a stranger capable of seeing into his mind was not an altogether comfortable thought. Jean-Phillipe tended to stay on his own. The only wild card was Logan - this world's Weapon X. _Nein_, Kurt thought, _this world's Wolverine._

It was difficult to separate in his mind at times, though this Logan had shown himself to be at least somewhat honorable in Otherworld - even if Kurt had to shame him into action. Still, he sometimes struggled to control the urge to lash out with a blade if the man caught him unawares.

More disturbing, however, was the close friendship the man had apparently had with Kurt's dead dopplegänger. Not even when the Logan of his own world was with the X-Men did Kurt have anything more than a working relationship with him. Truth told, he'd found him egocentric and difficult to tolerate even at the best of times.

_The best he is at what he does, indeed._ Kurt snorted.

This man, who wore the face of a mass murderer back home, and lead a team of assassins here, looked on Kurt - at least at times - with a kind of sad expectation, as if he were willing some aspect of his lost friend to suddenly appear. It was maddening, and it seemed the scenario was repeated for every person Kurt met who had known Wagner. He was growing to resent it more each time it happened. He detested being seen only as who he was _not_, rather than who he _was_.

Well, there had been one exception to that oft-repeated theme. He certainly hadn't minded the lovely Megan looking on him with those dewy calf eyes. _Entzückend. _Kurt smiled at the memory. Pity the woman was so attached to her thick-necked lout of a husband. How typical. He wondered just how much Wagner had enjoyed those feelings the she'd mentioned from the past, then shook his head with a smirk. From what he'd heard about his dopplegänger, the man had probably been too noble for such a thing.

Having tossed his dusty, sweat-drenched clothes in the corner, Kurt stepped into the shower. He held his head under the spray for a long time in an attempt to clear the headache that always seemed to start forming as soon as he was back in this _verdammt _base. He had to get out of here for awhile.

It wasn't that he hadn't explored the surrounding area - he had. His team leader had been thoughtful enough to procure a little device for Kurt that cast an illusion around his appearance. An "image inducer" was what Logan called it. To Kurt, it was simply a useful toy that allowed him to remain unobtrusive in this world. It did, however, rankle that he had to use it. Thoughts of keeping his presence here a secret aside, in his own world, humans were the minority and mutants the dominant beings, not like here, where they seemed on the endangered species list. _Ach,_ well, he had no plans on being around that long, and the device did allow for him to be in public without the nuisance of a probable altercation looming on the horizon. Said altercations tended to put a damper on his preferred recreational activities.

He'd even found a particular establishment that suited his tastes; though the beer was weak it was drinkable, and the perhaps dubious charms of the ladies who frequented it were tolerable given the strategic lighting. What more did a man need for a few hours of distraction?

He toweled off and dressed, his mind on the planned nocturnal excursion. He very nearly had made good his escape when there was a knock at the door.

_Of all the verflucht luck, _Kurt thought, as he opened the door and saw Logan.

The short, stocky man eyed him from under the brim of his hat, then almost seemed to offer a smile.

"Headed out fer the evenin' El...Kurt? Stopped by to ask if you wanted to go for some beers. This place gets to me after awhile, don't know about you," he added. "Figured you might be needin' some breathin' room."

Kurt looked at Logan, deliberately making his face devoid of expression. That particular unreadable look actually made him resemble his mother even more than usual, though he didn't realize it.

"_Ja_, I suppose I was on my way out." He gave himself some credit for at least trying to hide the irritation in his voice.

"Well if you ain't particular, I know a good spot close by. Come on, I'm buyin'". Logan turned and started walking, apparently expecting Kurt to follow.

Feeling like he had little choice - the man was his host here after all - Kurt nodded once, less than enthusiastically, and closed his bedroom door behind him. He followed Logan to the makeshift garage of the complex where Logan moved to get into a battered, yellow pick-up truck, rather than the more modern sedan. Kurt groaned inwardly. The thing was sure to be a smelly rattle-trap that went at a snail's pace. _This is getting better by the moment._ He frowned. _Perhaps staying at the base and listening to Wade argue with himself (and lose) would be preferable._ But, mustering his resolve, he climbed into the truck and perched himself on the cracked vinyl seat.

The attempted small talk on the drive into town was predictably strained.

"Reckon things are pretty different here than back home, ain't they?" Logan looked over at Kurt, one arm hanging out of the truck window and his other hand on the steering wheel.

Thinking of the mountains of corpses that lined the streets and the sentinel patrols filling the skies, Kurt nodded. "_Ja_, it's different." The man certainly had a talent for understatement.

"Suppose it's a relief, you know, bein' out of that mess."

"That _mess_ you are referring to is my home." Kurt replied, without turning his attention from the view passing by outside.

Logan lit a cigar, and said nothing further until they arrived.

By the time they arrived at a very questionable-looking bar, Kurt was already trying to think of ways to cut the evening short. It didn't help that the other man seemed even moodier than his normal less-than-sunny self. _Hardly the demeanor of someone wanting a night on the town_, Kurt mused. He wondered, not for the first time since they'd left, just what this was about. _Perhaps it's team business under the guise of socialization. That must be it._

In the time he'd been in this world, Logan hadn't gone out of his way to seek Kurt's company since those first snarky assertions regarding who he was not. In fact, the man had pointedly seemed to try and avoid him, except when it was related to X-Force business. That had suited Kurt just fine. None of these people were his friends, they were simply temporary associates, and a means to an end.

"Well, this is the place." Wolverine hooked a thumb in the direction of the building's front awning. "Ain't much on the outside, but they don't water the beer. C'mon, neither of us are gettin' any younger."

Logan exited the truck, slamming the door with a resounding clang. Kurt sighed and fished the image inducer from his pocket. He used the tip of one pointed fingernail to adjust the settings to what he wanted, then followed the man into the bar. The stink of stale beer and the twang of Hank Williams on the jukebox assaulted him as he entered.

He followed X-Force's team leader to a booth in the corner, where a harried looking waitress was already arriving with a pitcher of beer and two glassses. She smiled familiarly at Logan and yelled over the din, "Holler when you want more, Hon."

Kurt curled into the bench seat opposite and tried to find a comfortable position. He much preferred barstools and the freedom of motion they offered for his tail.

Neither man said anything as they drank the first round, and "Vera", as the waitress's name tag declared in bold letters, brought the second, including a bottle of whiskey and two shooter glasses.

"What, no movie stars?", Logan finally queried over the rim of his glass, starting round three by then.

Kurt was jostled from his thoughts on how best to extricate himself from this miserable experience of attempted male-bonding.

"Hmm, what?"

"I said, no movie stars?" Logan looked at him with wry amusement.

"Yer image inducer. You just made yerself look like any average Joe. You could look like - hell, I don't know - some Hollywood hotshot or somethin'. Give the broads here a thrill."

Kurt looked around at the available "broads" in question and quickly decided that he had no wish to give any of them a thrill. He took a swallow of beer and said as much. Chuckling, Logan shook his head, and drained another glass, followed closely by two consecutive shots of whiskey.

Gott, but that man could drink! Kurt hoped that he, himself, wasn't intended to be the "designated driver". Logan had been right that the beer wasn't watered, and Kurt could feel the alcohol warming his blood.

"Yeah, ain't no real lookers in here. But hell, the Kurt I knew woulda been yackin' it up just the same, makin' 'em think they were lookers." By this time, the older man's voice had started to slur a bit.

"I swear he could've had any woman eatin' out of the palm of his furry blue hand. Old and used up like these here, or some babe lookin' like she stepped out of a magazine." Logan chuckled again and took another duo of shots before washing it down with more beer. "Used to get numbers thrown at him on napkins."

"And funny - hell he could make a rock laugh. Had me snortin' beer out of my nose more'n half the time when we went out partyin' ", a drunken Logan continued along the same vein.

Kurt looked at Logan coldly, lip curled back in a mocking smile. The other man was oblivious in his intoxication to the contempt directed his way. This was another attempt at Logan recapturing his dead friend. Kurt should have known. He debated on just teleporting out on the spot, leaving the man to wallow in drunken remembrance. Kurt watched him narrowly, tapping his thick nails on the grungy table before heaving a disgusted sigh and pouring himself more lager. Fine. Let him ramble on. It was just one night. At least now he knew not to fall for this particular ruse. And perhaps, Kurt thought, he would learn something about this dead twin that might be beneficial at some point. He smiled thinly with that thought. Logan smiled back, apparently believing Kurt's expression had to do with what he'd been saying. That was amusing, as he'd stopped listening some time ago, somewhere between the time his counterpart had bolted the bedroom furniture of someone called "Scott" to the ceiling as an elaborate joke (poorly received) and the more recent "war of pranks" in Europe. (He wondered if the Petey referred to was the same morose lump he'd seen a photo of at the base.)

So, the night proceeded at the pace of a drunken tortoise, and Kurt learned more about his dopplegänger than he'd ever expected (or wanted) to know. He politely interjected the occassional _"Nicht wahr?"_ at appropriate intervals and mentally filed away what he was hearing. After enough alcohol was consumed, he even found some of the stories entertaining. Others, he found downright appalling. _The man had once studied to be a priest? _Kurt thought with horror._ And he had been a circus performer? Scheisse! Had he no self-respect? How could two genetically identical men be so different?_

One thing was certain, Kurt was coming to at least see the reason behind Wagner's popularity and the devotion of his friends. The man had made himself endearing, albeit clownishly at times. And he was either the next best thing to a saint, or he had been so consumed with the need to be liked that he'd woven an amazing facade of the "understanding friend" around himself, ensuring those closest would only see the best of him. Kurt tended to believe the latter. He also found himself quite glad that he had no such compulsion.

Finally, the bar closed for the night. They were the last patrons to leave. Kurt half-dragged an excessively drunken Logan to the truck and dumped him unceremoniously onto the rusted truckbed for the drive home. Feeling none too sober himself, though he'd long since chosen to voluntarily dilute his own drinks, Kurt took the drive very slowly, letting the cool night air wash over his face from the open window. He could hear the discordant (and frankly disturbing) sound of Logan singing, _"I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts",_ from the rear of the truck.

Arriving without major mishap - the rather large cactus stuck to the front grill didn't count, Kurt surmised, as it had caused no structural damage to the vehicle - he killed the ignition and got out, peering at the now snoring man in back who wore the face of a hated mass murderer. Sighing, he hefted the dead weight (_Mein Gott he was heavy!_), and teleported his passenger inside to the couch, laying him down. Then, with relief, he took himself to the welcome darkness and quiet of his own bedroom.

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><p>Logan awoke in the blackest hours of pre-dawn, a foul taste of stale beer in his mouth and his eyes still blurry from this latest binge. He ran his hand roughly back through shaggy hair, and grunting, got up to retreat to his room with thoughts no less dark than they'd been earlier today.<p>

_Damn stupid flamin' idea, draggin' Darkholme along. Bet he had a hell of a time. As if he didn't already bitch enough, now I dump a load of horseshit drunk ramblin' off on him, _Logan thought. He wished he could remember what all had been said. _Nothin' for it now I s'pose._

Still, he knew why he'd sought the other man out. Today, Logan had just wanted - needed - to see his friend's face; hear his voice. Even if it wasn't the real deal.

He closed the door to his room, switching on the lamp that sat on a small table on the far side. He dug around in his pocket for a lighter and lit the stick of sweet smelling incense in an ornate Japanese burner. The subdued lamp-light shone on a series of small framed photos lined up neatly on a silk cloth. Mariko. Jean. Kurt. He picked up the last picture and looked at it for a long while before replacing it on the table. Anniverseries. He was good at anniverseries. Today made two years ago that his best friend had died. And no amount of looking for him in someone else's face was going to change that.

Logan switched off the lamp and laid across the bed, staring at the ceiling, lost in memories.

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><p>German translations:<p>

_Sheisse : "shit"_

_Ach, diese schreckliche Hitze :"Ach, this tremendous heat"_

_Entzückend : "enchanting"_

_Verflucht : "Cursed"_

_Verdammt : "damned"_

_Nicht wahr : "not true" or "isn't it so" (Used in context as a phrase similar to "You're kidding?" or "You don't say")_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: The characters and environment depicted are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fiction set in the main Marvel universe (616) in May of 2012, before the events of Uncanny X-Force #24. The date and time elapse mentioned, as well as the details surrounding events are my own speculation, as they've not been stated in the MU._

_The Bauers, the St. James family, Bianca Navarra, Karl Lange, and Jadzia were all created by me to fill in a few blanks and propel the story forward._

_**Chapter One: Frayed Seeming**_

_Now this was enjoyable_, Kurt thought with a grin, brandishing his swords.

The man who used the code name "Nightcrawler" launched himself with lightning speed towards his attackers, three well-armoured, well-armed assassin units. Teleporting midway through his leap, he reappeared perched on the shoulders of his first opponent. Kurt ducked and maneuvered himself out of the line of laser fire that erupted from the opposite side of the room, then narrowly avoided the bladed metal arm of his neighbor as it whizzed past his ear. Swinging his foot in a devastating kick to the face of the assassin next to him, he caused it to lose balance, and gave himself the few seconds he needed to finish off his temporary roost and move on to the next target.

He vaguely heard the clang of a, now headless, robot hit the floor as he materialized on the shoulders of the third villain, tossing the sizzling head of his former "friend" to the floor. Disabling this new fellow's weapon with a flashing strike of his sword, he chose to dispose of him with a bit more style. He used a downward strike of steel while similtaneously hurling his remaining sword with deadly accuracy towards the recovering final 'bot, impaling it in a shower of sparks. All of this occurred in under two minutes.

Kurt grinned and rolled his shoulders, going to retrieve his sword from the still smoking robot. Without looking up to the observation window, he gave the hand signal to increase the difficulty level and prepared himself for some real fun, after this little warm up.

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><p>Wolverine and Kitty Pryde observed the danger room exercise from an overhead booth with varying degrees of interest. Logan watched with the attention of a leader, while Kitty watched with a flat expression, wishing she hadn't had to come here, to Cavern X, to have a private "pow wow" with the school's headmaster. The less she saw of this savage imitation of her dead friend, the better.<p>

Though the new generation of danger rooms did not require the safety precaution of a second person to control the program settings any longer, Logan still found it useful to observe his team members as individuals, as well as in a group, on occasion. It helped him pin down strong points, and points that could mean a weakness of performance for the team. In their line of work, weakness meant death.

He found it a challenge to try and keep X-Force in any kind of cohesive team structure. Because of the nature of what they did, the team was comprised of members who tended to have baggage, and lots of it. All of them were accustomed to a certain amount of solo work, some more than others. He figured he and Wade were the biggest Mavericks in the outfit, but none of them were innocent of the mindset. It made working together, and trust, an especially big issue, not like the X-Men he'd first joined so many years ago. X-Force wasn't family; they felt more like partners in crime most of the time. Logan shook his head to dismiss that idea. _That way o' lookin' at things sure as hell won't do anybody any good, _he thought._ X-Force is necessary, as much as any o' the other teams, maybe more. We just got a different way of going about things._

He watched Kurt Darkholme with an analytical eye. Some of the moves - many in fact - he knew from the years he'd fought alongside Kurt Wagner. Same basic execution and speed, same preferences for order of attack on multiple opponents, same drive for perfection. Yet there were some notable differences. Logan's friend had been a performer at his core, and anything he did had more than a smattering of the dramatic added in for effect.

Logan smiled to himself. He'd tried to bust Kurt's chops once about that showmanship thing, had told him, "Fancy footwork's fine for a show Elf, not combat," to which his friend had replied, "How I do my job Wolverine, is _my_ business, so long as that job is properly done. If I choose to do it with style, a little panache, a lot of fun, where's the harm?" **

Watching the man in a danger room session sometimes had felt like watching a choreographed movie scene.

Kurt had also preferred to stun or temporarily incapacitate his opponents; he never fought to kill. Not like the man Logan watched now.

Darkholme had a lot of the same flare; no doubt about it, he was as much of a show-off in his own way as Logan's old friend. The main difference was the deadly earnest with which his moves were executed. No movement was wasted. No quarter given. Everything he did was utterly controlled and calculated for the deadliest effect. He made a highly effective killer.

He also appeared remorseless, or rather simply without reaction to it. _Numb to it maybe_, Logan mused. Darkholme, at least from what Logan had seen, generally didn't give up much emotion over anything, that is, aside from pissin' an' moanin' an' shootin' off that smart ass mouth - he did all that well enough.

Even when the man had convinced him - against Logan's better judgment - to help the citizens of Otherworld, Kurt'd had a self-righteous poker face about the whole thing. For all his pretty speech, he might've been talking about the weather, though Logan had had little doubt at the time that Darkholme would've helped them regardless of what the rest of X-Force was ordered to do. That alone made him believe that this man and his lost friend were cut from the same cloth, somewhere deep down.

He heard Darkholme give a gleeful cackle as he decapitated another opponent in the danger room and muttered to himself, _way deep down_.

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><p>Kitty took Logan's continued silence to mean he was in a mood and let him be for the moment. She wasn't the most patient person, but Logan's disposition was well known. Talking to him when he was like this was a study in futility. She debated on postponing their discussion, but decided against it; she'd traveled all the way out here to this god forsaken base, he could damn well talk to her. Surely when this session was over, she could grab his attention for a short while.<p>

Logan's moods had been growing worse of late. She suspected it was due, in part, to the major increase in responsibilities her friend had taken on. The man really was burning the candle at both ends. Kitty sighed and shifted restlessly, turning her attention back to that cold-blooded echo down below, of someone she'd once known, and loved as well as a brother. Her gut wrenched, as it did every time she looked at Kurt Darkholme.

If she squinted her eyes, she could almost believe it was the "real" Kurt she was seeing, back from the dead; but then that just made it worse. So, instead, she decided to try and pick out as many differences as possible - something, _anything_, to keep him from seeming so much like a twisted caricature.

_He's thinner, that's distinctive, _she noticed. Her Kurt'd had the healthy, robust musculature of someone who'd grown up on a trapeze; this man was sinewy and whip thin. Whether it had been caused by deprivation or hardship, Kitty didn't know, and truthfully didn't much care.

_Kurt_ _Darkholme looks older_, she thought. His blue-furred skin stretched taunt over the bones of his face; it made the hollows of his cheeks, along with his nose and chin, even more prominent than they'd been on her friend. To her eye, the harsh, angular contours of that face made him look even more demonic than he might have otherwise. And his eyes..._God, his eyes are awful, like windows into Hell. _

_Girl, you're biased against him and you know it._ Kitty shook her head. She'd not seen Kurt Wagner as demonic in so many years now. However, she could still remember how afraid she'd been of him because of his appearance when she'd first joined the X-Men, and how hard he'd worked to alleviate her fears. She sighed and an image came to her mind of her friend's smile. Those glowing yellow eyes that she'd found so frightful at first, now looked like twin candle flames in her memory, twinkling with amusement, warm with affection. Kitty swallowed the lump forming in her throat and tried to turn her thoughts to other things - like why she'd come here to start with.

"Logan, I know you're busy, but really, about this thing with Rogue...", she started, stepping closer to him. He looked over to her at the same time the computer signaled the conclusion of the current danger room session. Kitty ground her molars in frustration, as smoke and the acrid stink of brimstone signaled Darkholme's arrival into the observation room.

His slightly arched brows were the only indication that he was surprised to find a non-member of X-Force in the base, watching him. Kurt cast his baleful, red gaze on her and inclined his head in a greeting. "Katherine, I believe it was..?"

Her name came out sounding like "Kazerine". Kitty nodded a greeting. Mentally, she noted the accent. _His accent is more pronounced, that's another thing._ Having no wish to talk to him, she remained silent and willed him to go away.

* * *

><p><em>Ach, it was the junge Frau with the hard eyes, <em>Kurt thought in consternation. He hated the way she was looking at him, as if he were something she'd found stuck to the bottom of her shoe. _Of course_, he silently admitted, _I might deserve a certain amount of coldness from her, given our initial meeting._

That first day he'd arrived, she rushed to embrace him, believing he was a dead man returned. Kurt disliked spontaneous displays of affection from people he _knew, _let alone from strangers (unless of course they were buxom and long-legged and...nevermind).

He'd reacted to her emotional greeting by shoving her roughly away and pointing out - well shouting out, if he was honest - that he was not her friend.

Turning away from her now, he looked with dry amusement at Logan. "So, after this little game, is there something you believe I need to work on, _Herr __Anführer_? Perhaps _mein Purzelbaum_?"

The shorter man looked at him with a hard eye. "Don't know what the hell a 'poozelbawm' is, but if it means attitude, then yeah, you need to work on it. This ain't meant to be playtime Kurt. You know what we go up against. You know what's happened lately with the team." Logan leaned his arms on the console.

Kurt tilted his head, replying, "I assure you I am aware of what we do, _mein Freund_. We kill people." He smiled thinly. "You have my apologies for enjoying myself with this computerized sport. I'll try and avoid it in the future, _ja_?" Glancing between the two of them, he added, "If that's all...?." He indicated Kitty, still obviously waiting on the other man's attention. Sighing, Logan waved him away. "Yeah, yeah."

"Then _guten abend _to you both", Kurt said with a small, sarcastic bow. With that he left, disappearing with an implosion of air and smoke.

Kitty looked at Logan and folded her arms, "You know what kind of a creepy asshole that guy is right?"

"Yer preachin' to the choir darlin'." He made a noise and shook his head. "Darkholme's all right where it counts - he gets the job done. Anyhow, what was it on yer mind again?"

* * *

><p>After changing out of the hideous uniform he'd been given - these people really had no taste in clothing whatsoever - Kurt teleported into the kitchen to see if he could find something appetizing to turn into a meal, preferably a quiet one.<p>

"Yo, angry Elf, just the guy I needed to talk to!" Wade declared from behind an impressive pile of processed snack food. He dropped his treasures onto the kitchen table, most of them remaining there (verses the floor), and flopped down in a chair.

"I have told you _not_ to call me that. I find that particular appellation offensive," Kurt returned.

"Nah, you said don't call you _Elf_; I didn't, I called you _Angry Elf_. See the difference? It's all in the emphasis. How can the name "Elf" make you feel all girly-like if it has "angry" in the front? Personally, I think you look more like a goblin though." He crunched thoughtfully on something covered in orange powder.

Kurt enunciated his words carefully, and spoke slowly. "Elf is not my name."

"Oooh, Arnold Schwarzenegger in slow-mo. Hey can you do that 'I'll be back' line?" Wade smiled hopefully, then waved his hand. "Nevermind, it just wouldn't be right coming from a skinny, blue fuzzball." He ripped into another pack of cheese doodles.

Clenching his jaw in irritation, Kurt contemplated teleporting the moron's head off again, but knew from grim experience that it wouldn't work to shut him up. Instead, he turned his attention back to the freezer and continued to look for supper. Kurt deliberated to himself over the options. _Lasagna? No, I hate Italian._ _Stroganoff? Ugh, it looks like dog food in the photo on the box. Ach, who does the shopping for this place? _Whoever it was, their taste in food was similar to their taste in uniforms. If it wouldn't require spending even longer in this kitchen with his annoying team mate, he'd just cook something. He decided to opt for a sandwich. Not much could go wrong with that, and best of all, he could take it and leave quickly.

The fool was still blathering on, "So me and my best bud Logan were talkin' while we were kicking goat butt in Otherworld, and we decided that everybody on X-Force was screwed in the head, you know? I mean the boss man is a poster child for a half dozen or so psycho disorders. Personally I think he's got narcissistic personality disorder, but mind you, I ain't a professional or anything."

"_Nein_, you're an imbecile," Kurt muttered, his back still to the kitchen table.

"Betsy is all kinds of co-dependent, I mean look at that shit with Warren and now with Le Pew. Bad news, that chick. And the French fry, don't even get me started on him. The guy has more than one brain and none of 'em work right! Hey, back off those cocoa snaps, those are mine!"

Kurt tossed the cookies back into the cabinet with disgust, and prepared to take his dinner and leave.

"Yeah, so that leaves you man. What is your major malfunction? What are you so pissed at everybody for?" Wade looked at him with interest.

Picking up the knife he'd used in making the sandwich, Kurt looked over to his kitchen companion with a tight-lipped smile. He flipped the knife lightly, replying, "Why, I am pissed with people not sharing their cocoa snaps, of course." With a deft flick of the wrist, he pinned a bag of Wade's potato curls to the table, half an inch from the man's hand.

As Kurt exited in his characteristic cloud, he heard Deadpool mutter in hurt tones, "Dude if you got the munchies that bad, take 'em."

* * *

><p>He reappeared in his <em>sanctum sanctorum<em>, or at least the closest he had to one in this world.

"Malfunction? _Mein_ malfunction? _Gott_, what an idiot!" Kurt snarled under his breath. "Why am I so angry he asks, well he hasn't lived my life - watching those I love die, watching a world die. Do this und see just how full of joy he is! _Backpfeifengesicht!_"

Placing dinner, such as it was, on his desk, he switched on the lamp and moved to look for music to calm his irritation and at least give his humble abode some atmosphere. _Bach or Liszt? Hmmm, how about a compilation? _ Finding the disc he wanted, he loaded the player. _There, that will do_. The soothing strains of _Goldberg Variations _filled the room as he sat down to eat, and switched on his computer.

Finishing his sandwich, he checked the various programs he'd installed to collect data regarding violent or disruptive mutant activity - villainous mutants frequently made the news worldwide - and finding little of interest, sat back to just enjoy the music. The CD had moved on to _Liebestraum_, and he closed his eyes, remembering where he'd first heard the melody.

It had been as a young child in Germany. One of his earliest memories in fact. Uta Bauer was her name. She was the combination housekeeper, nanny and cook that his mother had employed since – well, the old woman and her husband, Dieter, had been around all of his life, as far as he knew. She would play on an ancient, out of tune piano in the sitting room. His mother was still present fairly often back then and Victor was no longer in their lives, thankfully.

The evenings when Uta played the piano, or perhaps Dieter would come inside to sit by the fire and play his violin, were bright, pleasant lights in his memory. He'd sit curled on his mother's lap, wrapped up in the beautiful music and her arms. She always seemed in a good mood when the music played; that was probably why he'd loved it so. She had an unpredictable streak even in those days, but with that gentle accompaniment, she was just his mother.

_**(Translated from German)_

"Do you like the music, Mutti?" a very young, sleepy Kurt asked, looking up into Raven's face.

She smiled down at him, brushing his tousled hair back from his forehead. "I do, very much. Uta plays beautifully."

He cuddled closer, stifling a yawn. He didn't want to go to bed yet. "What's the song called?"

"It's called Love Dream," she said.

"I didn't know love could have dreams." Kurt frowned, his brows puckered in confusion.

Raven chuckled and kissed the top of his head. "I think it means more having a dream _about _love, my little man."

He always treasured her being there, but at the same time dreaded the next time she would leave him. He was too young, then, to understand the sort of work his mother did, or the difficulty she must have faced in safe-guarding a son that looked like him. It couldn't have been easy.

They lived in an old rambling farm house, tucked away in the Bavarian countryside. It was freezing in the winter and wretchedly hot in the summer; it had peeling plaster and warped frames, but it was home. It was the only one he'd known until he was nearly grown.

The property was isolated; the nearest village had been several miles away. There was a high, crumbling stone wall that surrounded the house garden, and a small servant's apartment over the kitchen. That was where Uta and Dieter had lived, though during his mother's absences, Uta stayed in the main house with him. He also wondered, not for the first time, where his mother had found a couple willing to care for a "demon" child so loyally.

He hadn't realized during his youth just how differently the world might see him. How could he? He looked like his mother more or less; surely that was how it was supposed to be. He never saw other children, and the only adults he saw were the Bauers; they certainly never indicated that there was anything abnormal or unacceptable about him. Now Victor, _he_ was a different story. Victor referred to him as a devil and other, more unflattering names that he didn't understand, but his mother said Victor was an idiot, and Kurt agreed at the time.

So why had the Bauers been so willing, and how did his mother know she could trust them with her hidden child? A former lover of his mother's, Bianca, once told him she thought it was because Raven had information on Herr Bauer from the war that he didn't want the authorities to have. Perhaps that was why she could trust them; she was skilled at using blackmail, after all. However, Kurt preferred to believe that they might have cared for him, at least a little.

The music switched to _Serenade Melancolique_, and his memory switched with it, to a bright attic playroom, almost a decade later. Uta and Dieter had been gone for several years by then; dead of old age. He'd been through two other caretakers, and was working on the third - and as it turned out, the last - after unsuccessfully trying to convince his mother he was well enough on his own.

It was a hot day in mid-summer. The sun painted the faded wooden floor with a golden hue, making it almost seem cheery. He could still feel the rough rafter beam underneath him as he lay propped on one elbow, looking down below. _Tchaikovsky_ played on the antique gramophone they'd found amidst the mountain of junk in the attic; the tinny sound had echoed beautifully there, and he watched, mesmerized, the _klein Tänzerin, _twirling in a sunbeam.

Kurt stood and turned off the music. He removed the disc and broke it in half absentmindedly, throwing the pieces into the waste bin. Perhaps he was not yet ready to retire for the evening. He'd go check the more extensive news feed in the complex's main communications room.

* * *

><p><em>German Translations<em>

_Herr Anführer - "Mr. Leader" (putting "Herr" before a man's name or title denotes respect)_

_Purzelbaum - "somersault"_

_guten Abend - "good evening"_

_Backpfeifengesicht -"face in need of a fist" (a German insult)_

_klein Tänzerin - "little dancer"_

_Mutti - "Mama"_

_The conversation referenced took place way back in Classic X-Men #4, "The Big Dare"._


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: The characters and environment depicted are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fiction set in the main Marvel universe (616) in May of 2012, before the events of Uncanny X-Force #24. The date and time elapse mentioned, as well as the details surrounding events are my own speculation, as they've not been stated in the MU._

_The Bauers, the St. James family, Bianca Navarra, Karl Lange, and Jadzia were all created by me to fill in a few blanks and propel the story forward._

_**Chapter Two: A Different Light**_

Having decided to familiarize himself as much as possible with this world - the differences as well as the similarities - Kurt had requested, and been given, permission to visit the extensive library system of the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning. It was an enlightening experience in more ways than one.

He found the school's design in and of itself to be fascinating, though unorthodox. Traditional building design warred with space technology and it seemed every conceivable security precaution was implemented. Even _he_ had been impressed. An extensive lawn encircled the property and offered leisure and recreational areas. He had been told that alien technology was also being used in the classroom setting, which allowed for a more interactive learning experience. Truthfully, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what that entailed, but Eric would have loved all of this - such a place for shaping the minds and hearts of the future.

The library was equally spectacular. It was set up in an open center design with multiple floors and sections divided by subject matter. History was on the third tier, which is where Kurt chose to spend most of his time. The information was available not only in the standard format, but also in holographic form. He found enough material there of interest to last months, perhaps years.

His only complaint was occasioned by the interruptions to his study. The chatter and activity of students didn't bother him. The fairly frequent announcements over the communication system were beneath notice. No, his grievance stemmed from the disturbances caused by a most unusual vermin that plagued the complex. Astoundingly enough, for all the world they appeared to be small, irritating versions of himself. After several hours of losing his page or his pen when his back was turned, finding poorly spelled insults scrawled across his notepad, enduring an entire top shelf of books toppled onto his head and - most embarrassing - having a holographic presentation from the Humanoid Reproductive section of the Science department mysteriously start broadcasting at top volume from the table where he'd sat, Kurt decided to call it a day.

The librarian watched him coldly as he descended the stairs. "You're going to have to pay for that, you know."

"Pay? For what?" Kurt attempted an expression of innocence.

"Those gouges in the books, _and_ what you did to the wall. What, do you think you can hack up my library with your little knife and not answer for it?" She tapped her green fingers impatiently on the front desk.

"But.." He dropped his pretense of ignorance and glared back at her. "You are aware this facility has a pest problem, _ja_?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." She shifted her attention to rearranging the paperwork before her. "All I know is that you've damaged school property and made a spectacle of yourself with that little holographic show. You'll be getting a bill."

Kurt stalked out of the library. _It might not be so bad if I had actually managed to get one of the little Scheißkerle, _he fumed.

After losing himself several times in the complicated building, he finally obtained directions from an unfriendly janitor and found his way to the cafeteria for a meal. That was an experience best forgotten. Afterwards, he retired to the lawns to relax and chanced across his team leader in the midst of a lecture. It surprised him that it was being given outdoors rather than in a classroom, but given the pleasant weather of the day, he could understand. Discreetly, he moved to listen in. It was apparent that this was an eyewitness account of world history. _This should be entertaining_, he thought.

*"So there we was in Soissons, feelin' beat, our backs to the wall. Ludendorf's troops just kept comin' - we'd fight off one bunch and another was right behind 'em. It never got quiet - never any peace from the guns and screamin' and dyin' all around. Bodies stacked up everywhere. An' the sky was never all the way dark - there was always flashes in the distance, like lightnin'." Logan dropped his voice as he spoke, commanding the attention of his listeners.

_He is certainly the story-teller,_ Kurt mused.

Crouching now, Logan gestured broadly, "But we had one advantage - by then, the Germans was more worried about fillin' their empty bellies than killin' us."

A young woman piped up with a question, "But Professor Logan, if they were hungry, why didn't they just eat?"

"Good question Idie. It was 'cause they pushed too far and too fast. They didn't have the supplies to last. Ludendorf never expected things to work out the way they did - he was just tryin' to lure the French troops from what was goin' on in the north."

"If _my_ people had been fighting, those miscreants would never have lived long enough to grow hungry," a tall thin and unearthly looking boy proudly boasted.

"Yeah well yer people weren't around Kid, so there ain't no sense speculatin' on that."

Kurt smiled to himself, intrigued. The man was quite good at this. Here was this gruff killer in a different light, and Kurt would never have expected such a thing from him. The children seemed enthralled and Logan was clearly enjoying his role.

As he looked at these seemingly well-adjusted young mutants, his mind wandered back to his own youth and how different it had been to this.

* * *

><p><em>It wasn't that my childhood was bad<em>, Kurt thought, _not at all. _ He'd been his mother's only child, at least that was his belief at the time, and she doted on him. Indulged by his caretakers as well, he hardly had the harsh upbringing that some children experienced. The big house and grounds were his entire world, and he, like a little prince.

The entirety of the attic had been converted for his play room, with a built in jungle gym dominating one side. He had more toys and books than he knew what to do with. Every time his mother went on one of her extended trips, she returned with some unusual treasure for him. Cunning wooden toys from the orient, a painted spear from South America, a gilt coffer from Cairo - all these things he kept in his attic treasure room. His favorite things were probably the costumes, however. She brought him elaborate clothes from all parts of the world, perfect for his games of make-believe. _After all, how many children could boast that they had an actual samurai kabuto helm? _ Kurt chuckled to himself. He fancied back then that he'd one day become a famous actor, and spent hours perfecting his performance before an adoring - but sadly invisible - audience.

No, his childhood hadn't been bad, just dreadfully lonely.

The Bauers had been kind, but with little energy to keep up with a growing boy and his games. His mother, even when she was present, was not exactly the playful type. True, she spent time with him; she started training him in combat from the time he could walk. She put a waster - a wooden training sword - into his hands by the time he was five. He also learned at an early age that the best way to gain her approval was to excel in her sometimes painful lessons. Show no weakness, give no quarter - he believed now that he'd drunk of these concepts with Mutti's milk. But she had no tolerance for his childish imagination or playfulness, which she referred to as "silliness".

Then, after Uta and Dieter died within a year of one another, his mother was left in a quandary regarding what to do with him. He was nine and still too young to be left on his own. Her other activities, of which he knew very little, still called for her to be often away. There was also the issue of his academic education to consider. Raven certainly taught him well enough when it came to self-defense and survival, but she hadn't the patience or the inclination to instruct him in the more sedate pursuits. He was an avid reader, and that helped, but it was far from enough.

Her first attempt to solve the problem had come in the form of Karl Lange, a young mutant from Berlin that she called a "special friend", and subsequently brought back to their house.

Karl had been well educated and personable with a sharp and sometimes biting wit. Athletically inclined, he even joined Kurt often in the normal childhood games of chase or hide-and-seek. The man was also heavily interested in pro-mutant rights, politics and history. Nor did his enthusiasm ever seemed to run low in regards to educating his young ward. Kurt loved having Karl there, and emulated him at every opportunity, much to his mother's amusement.

_**(Translated from German)_

"Well aren't you the little gentleman!" Raven exclaimed, laughing, after her son greeted her with a bow and a kiss to her hand.

Kurt grinned back, pleased with her reaction. "Yes, Karl says manners are one of the most important things for a man to learn."

"He does, does he? Well, Karl is certainly the charmer, isn't he?" She winked at Kurt's tutor then. "Though, I'm not entirely sure about the importance of courtly manners in the bigger scheme of things."

The arrangement had worked nicely for almost two years before things went sour. Karl grew disillusioned with Raven's frequent absences and lack of attentiveness when she was present. The isolation chafed at him. After a final argument, muffled behind a closed bedroom door, Karl left. Kurt had been devastated. It would be years before he understood that his tutor's departure had nothing to do with him. By the time he was eleven, his mother was stuck with no one to care for him again.

Raven's next solution was to hire a somewhat older woman from Poland who came on recommendation from a friend. The woman's name was Jadzia - Kurt couldn't recall her surname - she hadn't been around for long. The problem was the woman's cowering personality. Jadzia was intimidated by Raven, which was not exactly ideal but could be understandable. Unfortunately, she was even more intimidated by her young charge. That was a disaster for his mother.

Kurt grinned wickedly to himself at the memory. That was a fun few months. He didn't learn a great deal, but he certainly enjoyed keeping that poor woman on her toes. A tormented Jadzia finally fled back to her homeland one day with no warning, leaving his mother furious with him for his behavior.

_**(Translated from German)_

"Kurt do you have _any idea _what lengths I've already gone to to make sure you're taken care of?" Raven shouted one evening.

Wounded by her tone, he shot back, "If you'd just act like a _normal_ mom and stay home then there wouldn't _be_ a problem!"

"If I were a normal mother then I'd have a normal son - not something like you!" She raged, throwing the magazine she'd been reading across the room.

He looked at her in shocked surprise, then stormed up to his room, slamming the door hard enough to knock paint from the frame. He stayed there brooding for the rest of that evening and half of the following day. She finally came up to find him after lunch the next day when he still had failed to appear.

"Still sulking?" She asked, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed.

"I'm not sulking, I just don't want to talk to you," he muttered.

She walked over to the bed where he was sitting and, shoving his feet out of the way, sat down next to him with her elbows on her knees.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean for it to sound that way. I was just angry. You know I have a temper!" She added defensively, "It's just that it's hard enough to find someone I can trust with you without having _you_ go out of your way to sabotage things." She reached over to ruffle his hair and he flinched away, refusing to look at her.

"Kurt, look at me," she took his chin in her hand and forced him to meet her eyes before continuing, "I wouldn't want you any different than what you are. You're my son and I'm proud of you."

Unmanly tears filled his almost twelve year old eyes before he threw himself into her arms. He hated being at odds with her. She was surprisingly indulgent of his emotional display and held him close for a few minutes.

His voice muffled in her shirt, he said, "All right Mom, I'll be nice to whoever you bring here next."

And he had been - well, more or less.

It was a full season before she secured someone else for the position. During that time, he successfully fended for himself, which he didn't hesitate in pointing out to his mother. She was unmoved.

"No Kurt. You don't know what the world can be like. You have no idea at the things that could happen to you all alone out here. And I promised myself that'd you'd get a decent education, not like what I had."

He pouted and she stood firm, "I said _no_. Now I've found a woman, a Mrs. St. James. She's arriving at the end of the week. She's a retired school teacher, and she's American. Maybe she can improve your English." His mother winked at him, knowing his English was a sore subject - he hated speaking it. Raven also added, as an afterthought, "She's bringing her grandchild, a mutant about your age I think. You'll finally have a playmate." She continued, as if to herself, "that was one of the reasons she wanted the job, to keep her grandchild safe. It should make her trustworthy."

He was outraged. _A playmate?_ He'd be thirteen on his next birthday; he was practically _grown_. His mother talked as if he were a little boy.

Kurt laughed to himself at the memory. _Almost grown indeed!_

So the school teacher had arrived as planned. He was unsure what he expected, but she definitely wasn't it. For one, the woman looked almost like a giant to him; she towered over his mother, who was tall, herself. She also outweighed Raven by perhaps 40 kilos**. Clara St. James wasn't fat, but robust, with a proud carriage.

She was dressed in a boldly patterned and flamboyantly colored dress. It had hurt his eyes to look at her. She wore golden rings on almost every finger and bangles stacked on both large arms. Hoop earrings dangled from her earlobes and the woman's salt and pepper hair was cropped close to her skull. Her skin was a light golden color and she had soft, broad features with cat-like, flashing black eyes behind half moon spectacles. She'd peered down at him with amusement.

"Have you gotten a good enough look, young man, or should I hold this pose a little longer? You know it's rude to stare so."

Her voice was low-pitched and sounded cultured. He took a step back and dropped his gaze in embarrassment. This woman would be no Jadzia, that was certain. He heard his mother laugh softly and looked over to see her standing with her arms crossed, looking satisfied at his reaction.

"Kurt, this is Clara St. James, she'll be your new tutor. Clara, this is my son, Kurt," she smiled. "Don't let his current silence fool you; normally he's a silver tongued little devil."

Clara raised an eyebrow at him with a small smile. "Is that so?" she chuckled at his obvious discomfiture, "Well I've taught boys of about your age for almost thirty years; I think I can handle one with a silver tongue."

She reached behind her back then and pulled forward a diminutive girl to stand next to her. "Kurt, this is my granddaughter, Sydney-Ann. She's just a few years younger than you are, and a mutant too." Clara smiled and looked between the two of them. "Your mother says you've never had another child to play with, now you do."

Kurt had looked at this unlikely playmate. The girl reminded him of the little mice that hid in his attic playroom with their watchful, oil-drop eyes.

Her features were sharp, with a pointed chin and upturned black eyes; eyes that watched him without wavering. That was where the resemblance to her grandmother began and ended, he recalled. She was short and weed thin with a tangle of black curls hanging down her back in a kind of tail. Her sweater and trousers hung loosely on her. The most noticeable thing about her, however, was her skin; it was pale and covered with patterns and swirls that were the same color as Uta's varicose veins had been. It wasn't exactly ugly, but it was unusual. As if he were one to talk. Sydney frowned at him, clutching her grandmother's big hand.

Clara had detached the little girl from her side, "Well, you children should go off and play while Ms. Darkholme and I discuss the final details of our arrangement."

With that embarrassing dismissal, his only childhood friendship started.

Even as starved for companionship as he had been, the two of them didn't immediately develop a rapport. As a matter of fact, by the time they finished the tour of the house and he'd shown her around the playroom, they were arguing. It started with a harmless enough comment.

She was completely silent up until that point, following - he assumed, obediently - behind him to learn what was what. He had just finished pointing out the various things in the attic she was allowed to touch (a particular pile of goods in one corner that he didn't want) and simply remarked on her name.

"Your name is Sydney? That's a boy's name you know."

She looked hard at him, then answered in a drawl, "Shows what you know, 'cause it looks to me like I'm a girl. And it's _Sydney_."

He eyed her, somewhat confused, "That's what I said."

"No, you said _Zytney_. You talk weird."

Glaring at her, he decided then and there that he was going to have to show this child her place in the scheme of things.

"Und you look like one of the silly little mice I put traps out for. That is what I will call you from now on..._Mausi_."

She took a threatening step towards him, hands on her hips, "I'm _not_ a mouse and you _better_ not call me that."

"It is _my_ house, I'll call you what I want, _MAUSI_." He wondered just how much trouble he would get into for trouncing this upstart within the first hour.

A true fight was averted that day by the call to dinner, but they'd spent the next several months in a secret stealth war, kept just under Clara's formidable radar. There was a tacit agreement between them to fight this war without the interference of the adults - a kind of childish honor was at stake. So when the whiskers and paint that were added to Mausi's face, while she slept one night, failed to come off the next morning, she simply told her grandmother it was for a game. Kurt endured the bald patches in his fur for weeks without comment. They laid out traps, pulled pranks and hissed arguments, but the day when one of them was accidentally injured prompted a truce. The truce lead to tolerance and that, finally, to friendship. It had ended up being one of the closest friendships of his life.

Clara, herself, was speaking the truth when she said she could handle a silver-tongued devil; over the next years, Kurt received an excellent education. The woman was a veritable font of knowledge. He grew genuinely fond of her as well. When he was sixteen, and she died in her sleep, he was nearly as grieved as Mausi.

Her grief was borne of fear for the future as much as love for her grandmother. Clara had been her only remaining family. So it was with a great deal of relief that they learned she would remain, and this time, his mother agreed that he was indeed old enough to be without a live-in caretaker.

That last year at home had been surreal in many ways. Here they were, living in a tiny world within a world, cut off and only beginning to understand that fact. He was in the place between being a boy and becoming a man. He wondered often where his life would take him; wondered what else there was to the world other than that farmhouse. A certainty filled him that he would do something _important_ in his life, he just hadn't a clue what.

Predictably, as his childhood friend grew into her own maturity, the friendship they had together matured as well, and developed into first love. As a result, Kurt felt very divided. On the one hand, he was utterly content in the snug cocoon of this secret world. He was content there with her_. _Yet on the other, Kurt was more restless to see the world than he could possibly put into words. As it turned out, the decision on the direction of his life had been taken from him, and the rest - as they say - was history.

* * *

><p><em>German Translations<em>

_Scheißkerle- "bastards" (it has a variety of derogatory meanings in addition)_

_Mausi - "little mouse"_

_*Refers to the twin operations of Blucher and Yorck from WWI_

_**40 kilos is approximately 88 lbs_


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: The characters and environment depicted are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fiction set in the main Marvel universe (616) in May of 2012, before the events of Uncanny X-Force #24. The date and time elapse mentioned, as well as the details surrounding events are my own speculation, as they've not been stated in the MU._

_The Bauers, the St. James family, Bianca Navarra, Karl Lange, and Jadzia were all created by me to fill in a few blanks and propel the story forward._

_**Chapter Three: Like Nails**_

Finally, Kurt's diligence in monitoring the news feeds had paid off. In his hand he held the coordinates for a probable sighting of Dark Beast, and it was only a few days old.

Teleporting from rooftop to rooftop, with the city bustling below him, Kurt was in his element. How he missed the days of being one of Eric's covert agents! Alone, he could move at his own pace and in his own unique manner. There was no need to pace himself to accommodate those slower than himself. The shadows and heights were part of his world; it needn't concern him that his stealth might be compromised by someone trying to help him. He didn't _need_ help for such work. If a job was best done in secrecy, his own natural gifts made him the perfect one to execute it. Of course an all out skirmish with multiple foes was a different matter altogether, but that was hardly the scenario at the moment.

It wasn't that he _disliked_ being a part of a team. His friends from back home had been dear to him; they were his adopted family. The X-Men of his world had been an incredibly skilled group that could work as a team with all the efficiency of a machine. No, he had loved being a valued part of that group. It was simply that he felt more _himself _like this, stalking an objective and meeting the challenge of survival only with his own skills. Eric had understood Kurt's need to work alone at times.

His current team leader, however, seemed to have some difficulty with it, though Kurt could not fathom why; the man himself certainly seemed to prefer doing things on his own much of the time.

Given the necessity of discretion where X-Force was concerned, Logan tried to keep close tabs on its various members. This was especially true for Kurt, whose presence in this dimension remained secret to the world at large, and would raise serious questions if it were known. It had been requested of him upon first arriving that he report to Logan if he had the need to wander too far afield. Kurt grudgingly obliged. Really, he surmised, if it wasn't directly related to X-Force, it was a "need to know" basis, and Wolverine didn't necessarily _need_ to know every move he made. The two of them had a difference of opinion on this subject. The conversation from yesterday had been a prime example of that.

He'd rung Logan on the private cell number that all team members had been given.

"Yeah what? Teachin' a class here...," Logan brusquely answered.

"You've asked me to inform you if I was planning an absence from the base, _Herr __Anführer,_" he said in a light tone, "and I'm informing you."

Kurt winced and held the telephone away from his ear as the man yelled to someone on the other end of the line, "Hey! Put that shi-stuff down and get back to yer seat! I ain't gonna tell you again, Quire!" Returning his attention back to the phone, he asked, "Sorry 'bout that - kids, you know? So where'd you say you were goin' and for what?"

"I did not, I simply told you I would be away." Kurt's reply was met with momentary silence.

"Uh huh. You wanna give me an idea in case you need back up or somethin'?"

Kurt sighed. "I don't anticipate the need for back up. This is simply an information gathering excursion. You're aware I've been doing such work for many years now, correct?"

The background noise on Logan's side was diminished for a moment. Maybe he'd stepped out of the room. "Look, this ain't back home, okay? It's a different ball-game here." Logan's voice took on that lecturing tone that was especially irritating.

"Und your point is...?" Kurt answered, keeping his voice even. "Your world is a cake-walk compared to mine."

"Look Kurt...," The level of noise on Logan's end had increased again. "Dammit, Broo ain't no football, put 'im down!" The man bellowed to someone, causing Kurt to flinch.

Just wanting to be done with this now, Kurt answered, "_Ja, ja_, alright. I'll be in the Atlanta area following a lead. Is this satisfactory?"

"Yeah, okay." Logan said, "Look keep yer X-link on and if you get in trouble..." Kurt had clicked the cell phone closed on the man's voice.

* * *

><p>He looked out over the city now, buffeted by a warm wind at his high elevation. He brooded to himself, w<em>hat, am I a child to be treated in such a way? The imbecile Wade gets more respect! Eric knew my worth, and trusted my abilities.<em> Ah well, Kurt was still new here. Perhaps his counterpart had been incompetent in such matters and that was the reason for his team leader's undue concern. Trust took time to build. Kurt had no doubt that he would eventually prove himself adequately to the people of this world. He caught the direction of his thoughts and shook his head. _What do I care what they think_? It was his lost friends back home that mattered. They were the ones who had become a family to him, and Eric, a trusted mentor, but it had not always been so.

To say that Kurt had been a challenging prospect when he had first joined the X-Men would be an understatement. His limited exposure to other people and environments during his early life had left him with poor social skills. He was withdrawn and suspicious. He also viewed everything as a competition and had worked especially hard to prove himself against the other X-Men - hardly an endearing method of making friends. In addition, he was a young man dealing with the realization of precisely _how_ different he was, even from other mutants, for the first time.

He knew he looked different; he could see that for himself from the people in his life and the images from books and television. He just truly had not realized the reaction the rest of the world might have to his appearance until that last day. Until then, he had been protected from it. Kurt's mind automatically veered from that train of thought. He no longer even had to consciously make an effort to do so, it was so ingrained.

No, he had not been a natural fit with Eric's band of mutants. It was solely because of the man's patience and perseverance that Kurt found his place there.

Those first days, Kurt was still deeply traumatized and wounded from the events in Germany.

In an attempt to help him struggle from the silent cocoon of shock that had enveloped him, Eric brought in a young woman named Jean, to use her telepathy to try and calm the chaos.

"Kurt, this is Jean Grey. She has a special gift that may be able to help you through this difficult time."

A pretty red-haired girl, not much older than Kurt himself, stepped forward with a tentative smile.

"Hello. I promise this won't hurt. I just want to help." She held her hands out towards him.

Numb and silently indifferent to the things around him, Kurt didn't resist her gentle touch on his temples. That is, he didn't until the bright light of her mind brushed against his own and reawakened what he'd been trying so hard to forget.

"Get that _verdammt Schlampe_ away from me! She picks through my brain like _ein_ _Geier!_" Kurt screeched, hurling a lamp at the fast-retreating Jean.

But through the venom, Eric had remained steadfastly by his side with calm words of reassurance. Kurt could remember those gentle words even now.

"Kurt, I know you're in pain. The wounds of the flesh will heal, and whether you believe me now or not, the deeper wounds of the soul will heal as well, in time."

"What do you know of it?" Kurt spat in return. "Why do you talk to me of souls? You see what I am; you saw what they did! It was because of their god und his trade in men's souls!"

"No," he answered. "It may have been in the name of God that they did those things, but it was the darkness that lives in every man's heart, that thing which most struggle to keep in check, that prompted it."

"Und my mother? Did you see what _she_ did? It would seem that same darkness lies in her, _Herr Lehnsherr._

"I saw." Eric keep his gaze on the floor.

"what do _you_ know of such darkness anyway?"

Eric shook his head. "Oh, my boy, I know darkness of the soul." He slid his hand down his face sadly and continued, "What a parent does when faced with seeing a beloved child in danger is not something that can be so easily explained. The mind-numbing fury that someone would _dare_ to harm your flesh and blood, your _family_...perhaps when you're older, you will understand why she did what she did that day."

Kurt wasn't sure of the nature of the relationship Eric had with his mother, but it seemed obvious that the man was a loyal friend. Having lacked a father figure in his life, Kurt was drawn to the strength of that presence. He learned only later that the man had been dealing with the grief of his own daughter's death at the time, which made Eric's compassion towards a strange young German man all the more remarkable.

Pietro, as Eric's son, and the only other person, save Raven and Eric, to know exactly what had occurred in Germany, was the next X-Man Kurt learned to trust and call friend. He was outspoken, impulsive and could be temperamental, but all these things Kurt related well to at the time. Pietro became something of an elder brother figure, and slowly helped to curb his younger friend's more negative traits.

Kurt became accustomed to Ororo next, Pietro's lady, and though he found her to be somewhat proud and aloof, she was kind in her way. In his first faltering attempts towards fitting in, Kurt had been like a shadow to the couple, something they'd borne patiently.

Of the X-Men closer to his own age, he'd never really warmed to Piotr, although he respected the man in a fight; his gift was formidable. However, Kurt found him slow-witted and awkward to have a conversation with. They were far too different in personality to ever be friends. Then there was Shiro, who was a broken survivor like himself, but coldly rebuffed anyone's overtures of friendship.

The others all came to accept, and befriend him, with time, once he'd made the effort to let go of his natural tendency towards irascibility and suspicion. Even Jean, with their poor start, would later become one of his closest friends (after some profuse apologies on his part). He and Bobby had hit it off especially well; the man's irrepressible sense of humor kept so much of the hopelessness of life at bay over the years. Together, these X-Men forged for him an extended family he never realized he was missing. How he missed them now, along with the camaraderie! It seemed there had always been someone to talk to, to laugh with or, in some cases, cry with. He never felt cut off there, as he did here.

In those years, he learned to belong and feel like he was making a difference to better the world. He had also truly believed in Eric's dream.

Few could have been as happy as Kurt, himself, when Eric and Rogue married, and then welcomed the birth of their little son, Charles. Kurt had been a proud "uncle" and doted on the child, as did most of the other X-Men. He believed now that the boy had been a kind of living representation of their hope for the future, that there still could be one. The child was a joy, even in infancy.

"Lookit dis, he got his mama's smile," Remy leaned over little Charles and waggled his fingers.

"The lad could do far worse than to take after such a dashing rogue as myself," Kurt chimed in, grinning and letting the baby grab hold of his tail.

"But he'll have the discerning taste of a Lehnsherr, look how he stares down his nose at you, LeBeau," teased Pietro.

"Dat ain't lookin' down, he jus' got gas, see I pick him up and pat him on de back, he be fine." Remy lifted the little boy, and ended up wearing regurgitated milk, much to everyone else's amusement.

The years were not without grief, however. How could they be in such a war torn world?

The struggle with Apocalypse dominated everything in the beginning. That was a time of uncertainty and upheaval, death and destruction. So much had hung in the balance. In the midst of it, Kurt briefly reunited with his mother only to lose her again.

They believed Jean to be lost to them for a time. Others were lost in the fight over the years as well. There were so many - Morph, Clarice, Remy, Sean, and finally even Pietro and Ororo. Each loss had been like a nail in his heart.

Then there was Linda. With her, Kurt briefly found real happiness. Full of hope for a future together, it was all the more of a shock to have her so violently ripped away from him. He was left devastated and bereft, wrapped in a feeling of hollow helplessness.

He _had_ learned to understand why his mother had reacted with such savagery to the villagers in Germany, just as Eric said he would. _Ach_, how he understood now. If it was the last thing Kurt ever did, the Blob would pay for what he'd done to Linda.

Eric's dream had died a hard death, as well. Kurt thought perhaps the heart had gone out of it when the man had been forced to watch his young son, the last of his children by then, tortured and killed before his eyes. None of them were ever the same after that. They continued the fight. It was not in them to do otherwise, but it often felt more out of habit or desperation, rather than because they actually believed it would make a difference. The man who held them together for so long had become a ghost of himself.

There had only been a handful of his friends remaining when the X-Men of this world had shown up, and, by then, Kurt had allowed Eric's dream to be replaced by anger and the all-consuming need for revenge in his own mind.

_What more is there than vengeance for me? I have a dead family in a dead world, and I am one of the few left to know or care. __ Yet here, in this world, the dream still lives on._ Kurt had seen parts of it brought to life since he'd been here. _That's not surprising, since Eric's dream was that of his lost friend, Charles Xavier. In this world, __Xavier survived and birthed a legacy. _The Jean Grey School for Higher Learning, Kurt felt, was an embodiment of that dream.

* * *

><p>In the few hours since he'd arrived, Kurt was finding Atlanta a maze. It was sprawling, spanning over one hundred and thirty square miles in total and had a density of population comparable to any other large metropolitan city. After several references back to his digital map, he finally navigated to the portion of the city he wanted so he could obtain lodgings for the duration of his stay.<p>

It was startling how quickly the landscape of the neighborhood changed. He'd come in from the north, an area of clean modern suburbs and high-end shopping centers, and within one jump, he found himself in an area almost as derelict as some of the slums from back home. _The people here wear similar expressions as well, _he thought, _hopeless acceptance._ Another jump landed him amidst industrial skyscrapers and teeming downtown traffic. He finally settled on a part of the city a few miles beyond the central business district, off Moreland Avenue. It seemed unusual, which actually suited him quite well. Unusual was good if one had the habit of sometimes appearing in a cloud of smoke, image inducer or no image inducer.

Kurt couldn't quite decide if this little section of the city should be considered historic or slums, but it was inhabited by those who seemed to embrace an alternative view of the world. People clad in tie-dyed garments walked alongside those in leather biker gear. Street performers fought for space with the homeless and a wall without graffiti was an exception rather than the norm. Children played here as well, though it didn't seem entirely the best place for it, to his way of thinking. All this was surrounded by Victorian style homes in various states of repair and, of interest to Kurt, was very near the part of Atlanta he wanted easy access to.

He found a suitable inn easily enough and acquired a room on the top floor. After changing and securing his few belongings, Kurt decided to explore. He wouldn't approach the place where Dark Beast had been sighted until after nightfall.

He wandered through the streets, simply enjoying the fact that he could do so without constantly having to be alert for patrolling sentinels or avoiding stacks of decomposing corpses. He passed beautifully remodeled historic homes next door to ones with boarded windows and crumbling porches. He was only chased once by a dog (apparently there was a leash law here) and that was taken care of by a quick snap of Kurt's invisible-to-the-public tail on the animal's nose.

Finding a restaurant that offered outdoor tables, he enjoyed a leisurely supper before browsing through some of the more interesting shops. He decided he had no need of body piercings, pink hair dye nor platform shoes so he moved on to relax on a bench and simply watch a world that was, well - normal, he supposed. He wasn't exactly on intimate terms with what normal was, but perhaps this was it.

* * *

><p>German translations<p>

_ein Geier - "a vulture"_

_Schlampe – "bitch"_

_Anführer - "leader"_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter Four: The Devil's Path**_

The CDC - Center for Disease Control - was in sight now. Its grounds were extensive and Kurt expected security would be intense. _ I wonder how McCoy managed to infiltrate this place? _he asked himself. _ Pity Jean isn't around with her telepathy - that would make things easier, but then I did want a challenge. _

It was well after hours, therefore the best time to explore. He teleported to the roof of what seemed the main building. _Ach, what is that smell?_ Kurt wondered. Peering down, he spied a dead mouse near his feet. He kicked it from his path and then, looking around briefly while avoiding the more well lit areas, he made his way over the edge and began to descend the wall. He was simply searching for a window to give him a line-of-sight teleport into the building's interior. He found one quickly enough.

BAMF

Kurt found himself in what appeared to be a standard office with perhaps ten cubicles equipped with computers. All were dark and empty - lucky for him. He could only imagine the reaction to his sudden arrival that some poor late-working soul might have had. Trying one of the machines, he found it password protected. _No surprise, _he thought. He decided to move on and discover what he could.

Several hours later, he'd determined that security wouldn't be as much of an obstacle as he'd originally thought. Apparently whoever designed the system had presumed motion detectors on the floors would be adequate. Not many people expected a body to travel via the ceilings. Surveillance cameras were predictably located and easily avoided. Most importantly, Kurt had found the heart of the facility's security center. To truly investigate Dark Beast's activities here, he had to find a way to access the information stored there, but that was a problem for tomorrow.

Kurt teleported back to the roof and yawned. It had been a good night's work. Now to return to the room he'd rented downtown and get some much deserved rest.

Generally, he had no trouble falling asleep in a strange location. After all the years of travel while working for Eric, he was accustomed to it. Tonight was no exception, and the sounds of the traffic three stories below acted as a lullaby, the neon flashes no more disturbing to him than starlight.

The rigid control he kept his mind under during waking hours was relaxed in sleep, and there, the shadows were not always kind and welcoming. As might be expected from someone who'd experienced the things in life he had, Kurt had nightmares. He was as accustomed to them as he was to sleeping in atypical places. However, one in particular disturbed him more than most. Upon waking, he was left feeling out of control, like he'd been the victim of some tidal wave that had crashed over him, carrying him to some unknown shore, and it was a place he'd never find his way home from.

It always started the same, with the smell of popcorn (an aroma he detested).

That familiar odor filling his nostrils, Kurt twitched under the covers, flailing one arm out before succumbing to the dream.

* * *

><p>From the kitchen, I hear my favorite detective program playing on the television, one set in the picturesque clime of Hawaii. It looks so unlike Germany. One day, I'll visit there. I'll see such a place and know how it feels to put my feet in the ocean, and learn what such white sand feels like.<p>

It's cool out tonight, so we have a fire going in the grate, and it gives the room a warm, cheerful glow. I nearly trip over a stack of books while I'm carrying a bowl of freshly popped corn into the sitting room. Neither of us are of the age to be the tidiest of people. Clara was a stickler for neatness, but now that she's gone, there's no one to bother us over our piles of clutter. Mausi laughs and teases me about my lack of grace tonight. She sits on the couch wearing one of my old sweaters; she's so short that the thing reaches halfway to her knees when she's standing. She smiles up at me.

"Will you come on? The show is about to start and my feet are freezing!"

She wiggles her toes and pats the seat next to her. She wants me to sit down so she can tuck her feet under my leg, the same as every evening.

"What am I, your personal fuzzy blue foot warmer? Was für eine scheiss Idee!" I turn to her with mock indignation.

It is at that precise moment that my life changes forever.

I hear a sharp crack behind me, and the sound of breaking glass. As I turn to see what has caused the noise, I can feel the sting of something striking my head. I'm uncertain exactly what has just occurred, but I find the floor rising up to meet me. The bowl of popcorn strikes the coffee table and shatters, spilling its contents everywhere. Mausi sobs on the floor, and her arms encircle me. She is shaking with fear.

"Who are you? What do you want? Get OUT of here!" she yells at the figures suddenly crowding the room.

I'm horribly dizzy and my vision is etched in white; all I can make out are blurry man-sized shapes rushing towards us. I can't clear my head enough to teleport, and then it is too late. Mausi is torn away from me. She's kicking and thrashing at them, screeching obscenities with all of the rage a fourteen-year-old girl can muster.

"Let go of me you stupid son of a bitch! Goddammit, stay away from him! What have we ever done to you?"

_"Haltet ihn!" (Hold him!)_

Two men are holding me down, while several others take turns pounding their fists into my face and ribs. My nose snaps and my eyebrow splits. Blood runs down my face in little rivers. I think several of my ribs are broken, and there's a sharp pain when I try to breathe. My vision is cut in half as one of my eyes swells shut, and still, they continue. I struggle against them, but my body refuses to obey any of the commands I'm giving it. The whole while they heap abuse on me, they yell, _"Du bist der Teufel! Der Teufel!" (You are the devil! The devil!)_

_I am the devil? Me? I'm not even a grown man yet!_

After my cheekbone shatters, I am beyond pain. It seems that I'm watching all of this madness from above. I can see Mausi, actually very near where I am, facing towards me. I suppose they want her to see me, or perhaps, they wish for me to see her. There are fewer of them holding her. She fights for all she is worth, biting the hands that hold her, maiming the knee of someone with a lucky kick. It isn't enough. At least it isn't once the knife is out. Those men cut the little mouse quite a bit. A roaring sound fills my mind. I fight the men holding me, but I'm left with all the strength of a fish on shore. She's no longer screaming profanity; now she just screams. _There's so much blood! _My vision tunnels until all I can focus on are her eyes, locked with mine. That look! _Gott Mausi, I'm so sorry! _ They shout and jeer at her the whole while. They seem to be enjoying themselves.

_"Tötet des Teufels Spielzeug!" (Kill the devil's toy!)_

Her screaming stops abruptly, and those bright black eyes still hold me as they grow dim. Hot drops of blood splash across my face and run into my open mouth. My world has gone red. Many years in the future, when my world once again goes red, I will remember this night as a twisted prelude.

By the time I can see that familiar tangle of black hair sitting at such an odd angle from the body it goes with, I hear screaming again, but it isn't Mausi; it never will be again. No, this screaming is lower in pitch and shattering to my ears. My throat aches with it. It is the same word repeated over and over, drawn out each time.

_"NEIN! NEIN! NEIN! NEIN!"_

A sharp crack reverberates in my skull, then there is merciful darkness.

* * *

><p>When I next open my good eye, it is to a scene of gothic horror, as if from a bad film. The peaked ceiling of a church is over my head, and candlelight is flickering strangely from the stained glass windows. I try to rise, but my movements are limited by ropes that bind my hands and feet to a large table. My breath still catches from the pain in my ribs, and my brain feels as though it is burning. There is something I should know, but I cannot recall what it is. I can see stone statues of saints, looking down on me passively, like a mute audience. <em>Help me,<em> I whisper to them.

I become aware that there are men still surrounding me. Now they all hold weapons, but for a priest, who holds a vial of some liquid which he shakes across me. My vision swims for a moment, and I desperately try to gather my muddled thoughts, struggling vainly to force my weak and uncooperative body to teleport away from this. His voice is that of a trained orator when he says the same thing I heard only hours ago.

_"Du bist der Teufel." _

He says it so matter-of-factly, and with almost no feeling. He might have been saying that the weather was nice. I struggle again against my bindings and try to find my voice. Nothing but a hoarse croaking whisper will come from my throat. _There has to have been some mistake. I am no devil, I am just a boy! This is a mistake! Mausi and I are going to take a trip to see the Pacific Ocean when we're older. She is going to be a famous dancer or perhaps a doctor and I will live a life of adventure. _ My mind slides sickeningly. _Mausi_. Red fills my memory and I start to shake. _No, this is not happening! This is a mistake! I'm not a devil! _

The men around me cheer the priest, and they take turns bashing the helpless "demon" in their midst once again before taking up the chant,

_"Töten Sie den Teufel! Töten Sie den Teufel! " (Kill the devil! Kill the devil!)_

The priest begins to speak in Latin, reading from his great book, and the men look on me with gleaming, murderous eyes. Like many a young soldier on the battlefield, faced with the fear of death, I wish with all my heart for my mother. And then she is there.

I can hear a sound like no other I've ever heard. It is a type of high-pitched rending noise, as of metal against metal. Startled, the priest halts his reading, and he and the others turn to look towards the door. At that moment, it bursts outward from its iron hinges, opening a hole into the night that reveals a man and a woman standing there. _Mother!_ My mother stands in the doorway next to a white-haired man!

An iron candelabra shakes violently before hurtling through the air towards the door. Men yell in fright as weapons are snatched from their hands by the same unseen force. The very foundations of the church seem to be shaking. My mother wears an expression I've never seen as she rushes inside. She picks up two of the stolen weapons, and brandishing them in front of her, screams at my captors.

_"Wie könnt ihr es wagen? Wie könnt ihr es wagen?" (How dare you? How dare you?)_

She is cutting a bloody swath through them, heedless of their pleas for mercy. The dying grasp at her legs and the polished floor is awash with red. The white-haired man looks on sadly without interfering.

_"Dafür werdet ihr alle bezahlen!" (All of you will pay for this!)_

The bodies are piling up at her feet, a gruesome testament to a mother's avenging wrath. I can feel a tug on the ropes holding my wrists. I look up to see a young man some years older than myself, and bearing a strong resemblance to the man in the doorway. He gently unties my hands and feet.

The village men scream in vain, the sound echoing through the church. My mother continues, her face a terrible mix of rage and satisfaction, coated in the blood of these men. She taunts them as they die.

_"Verflucht seid ihr alle!" (All of you be damned!)_

_The blood! Ach, all the blood! _Their cries are a serenade of horror, and the sound overlaps in my mind with the screams I heard only a few hours ago. I feel reason slipping away from me. _No more, Mutti! Please, no more! _ _You are not a butcher like these men! Not you!_ My brain twists and my guts heave; then in a flash of fire and brimstone, I am finally elsewhere. Shaking, I hide in the shadows of a Hawthorne tree near the church, safe now in the cool depths of the night. A fire burns on the distant hill where once an old farmhouse stood. My home will be ashes by dawn.

That night, I bury the boy I was and the man I might have been. That man who might have lived a normal life. That man who might not have been one of the sole survivors of a mutant family, the husband to a dead wife and the bringer of vengeance. That night, in the shadows of a Hawthorne, I take my first step on the devil's path.

* * *

><p>With the echo of screams still hanging in the room, Kurt sat bolt upright in bed, sheet tangled around his waist. He was soaked in sweat and his heart was pounding; the adrenaline coursed through his bloodstream. Panting and gasping for breath, he clumsily dislodged himself from the bedding and paced to the window. <em>The devil. I'm the devil. <em>He leaned out, taking large gulps of the humid night air. Slowly, the dream receded, retreating back to the dark well his mind had devised for it. First the metallic taste of blood faded from his mouth. Then his ears stopped ringing. Finally the smell of popcorn was gone.

Kurt fingered the mark over his left eye. It was as much a scar as a tattoo, the skin puckered and without fur under the red design. The day at the base, when Wade had made fun of it, he'd wanted to kill the man. Not everyone looked into the eye of death and lived to tell about it.

* * *

><p><em>Du bist der Teufel - "You are the devil"<em>

_Haltet ihn - "Hold him"_

_Tötet des Teufels Hure!- "Kill the devil's whore"_

_Töten Sie den Teufel! - "Kill the devil"_

_Wie könnt ihr es wagen? - "How dare you"_

_Dafür werdet ihr alle bezahlen!- "(all of) you will pay for this"_

_Verflucht seid ihr alle!- "all of you be damned"_


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: The characters and environment depicted are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fiction set in the main Marvel universe (616) in May of 2012, before the events of Uncanny X-Force #24. The date and time elapse mentioned, as well as the details surrounding events are my own speculation, as they've not been stated in the MU._

_The Bauers, the St. James family, Bianca Navarra, Karl Lange, and Jadzia were all created by me to fill in a few blanks and propel the story forward._

_**Chapter Five: Ante Up**_

Waking mid-afternoon, Kurt spent the rest of the daylight hours trying to ease the tension from his shoulders and formulate a plan on how to gain access to the security footage in the CDC. Such places generally stored data for a period of time. It stood to reason that it would likely be stored in the central security room. Last night, that room had been manned by one guard, with another walking through the building, Tom and Bubba, respectively. It would be easy enough to overpower both of them, if needed, but that certainly would not go unnoticed.

The door was fingerprint activated. He'd gotten a glimpse inside, so he could teleport in, but naturally, that would cause unwanted attention as well. _I suppose it will come down to the image-inducer and my ability to act, _he mused. His accent would be the most difficult thing to hide. He concentrated, then tried to mimic a southern drawl in the privacy of his room.

"Evenin' Tom."

"How 'bout them Braves?"

_Ach, that's awful. _ He sighed. Fine. So the guard he planned on impersonating tonight would develop a sudden case of laryngitis.

Well after hours, he retraced his path from yesterday and lay in wait for "Bubba", the foot patrol guard, to leave on his rounds. After observing his departure, inspiration suddenly struck, and Kurt made a quick foray to one of the break rooms to pick up coffee and snacks from the vending machine, as well as something from the first aid room. After checking to ensure the coast was clear, he activated the setting he'd pre-programmed into his image inducer, and armed with goodies, tapped on the door of the security office. Tom looked out the rectangular window and frowned, but opened the door for him.

"Hey Bubba, that was a fast round. What, did ya run through or somethin'? "

Kurt nodded and forced a hoarse rasp from his throat and whispered, "Coffee."

"Damn boy, what's wrong with ya? Ya sounded fine a few minutes ago."

Kurt shrugged and gave the man a half smile, then offered up what he was carrying.

Tom grinned, eyeing the packet of Danish. "Yeah, can't have you gettin' sicker. 'Sides, ain't like anything ever happens here."

They sat down and the man devoured the coffee and sweets and droned on about his good-for-nothing son and nagging wife for the next twenty minutes or so. Kurt made whispered one-word responses as needed to keep the man talking and waited, trying not to fidget. _I'm going to have to move on to Plan B if this doesn't hurry and work, _he thought._ I can't afford for the real Bubba to show back up at this juncture._ Finally, Tom clutched his abdomen and grunted.

"Ugh. Coffee gone straight through me, man. I gotta hit the shitter. You wanna hold down the fort a minute?"

Kurt nodded in response and waited several seconds after the door closed before he jumped into action. He figured he had perhaps ten minutes, at the very most, before Bubba returned. _Poor Tom is likely be gone significantly longer, judging by the amount of laxative I added to his coffee. _

He made his way into the storage vault, and quickly found the relevant security tapes. He tucked them into a bag he'd brought for that purpose, then went back into the office to flip through the filing cabinet for records of requested access to the facilities. _McCoy, I'm in luck. Perfeckt! _Kurt had guessed correctly that Dark Beast had been posing as his counterpart in this world to gain entry. The records even offered an address; that was far better than perusing surveillance videos. He took the file and departed the building quickly.

Kurt wasted no time in tracking down the listed address. He debated on calling for back-up, but decided against it; there was time enough for that if he discovered the address to be valid.

The address led him to a particularly seedy apartment complex that rented by the week. It was apartment number 302. Staying out of sight and keeping to the outside of the building, he determined roughly where he thought the room would be.

He peered in a window and was confronted with the sight of an ample-figured blonde and a man that was most assuredly not McCoy engaged in a surprising show of agility, given the woman's corpulence. _Whoops, wrong room. _ Kurt grimaced and moved on to the next set of windows. They overlooked what appeared to be an empty living area. He took a chance and teleported in, freezing in place within the shadows and listening to determine if he'd been heard. No sound greeted him. Silently, hugging the walls, he crossed the room to peer into what should be the bedroom. It was empty as well; so was the bathroom. He opened the front door to peer at the number and make sure it was the right apartment. Yes, 302.

_Verdammt! _Kurt's fur bristled and his tail lashed in rage as he hurled his dagger with full force across the room. It stuck with a dull thump in the wall. Taking a deep breath, he raked his hand through his hair and tried to get his disappointment under control. It was at least worth a look around, in case McCoy _had_ actually been here.

An hour later, after rummaging through two bags of leftover garbage, and various other disgusting detritus, he was rewarded. It was scribbled and stained, but legible. _ 35665 Madripoor. _Kurt's fangs gleamed white in the darkness as he smiled viciously.

_The next day._

"Deal."

The cards slid across the table towards Logan.

"Raise by twenty," Kurt decided after looking at his own hand.

"You sure? I'm feelin' lucky."

"_Ja_. Twenty."

"So you think what you got on Drake bein' in Madripoor is reliable?"

"I wouldn't have brought it up if I didn't." Kurt hesitated before taking another card.

"Stop stallin' and play."

"I _am_ playing, however, the pay I receive here is barely adequate, therefore I'm careful with it."

"What? Barely...? Damn." Logan rolled his eyes and shook his head. "If the pay's so bad, why you wanna gamble it?"

"I have to supplement my meager income in some way, _ja_? Und I have nothing better to do at the moment."

"Raise you another twenty."

Kurt's expression didn't change as he slid a note to the center of the table.

"I know what Iceman did to yer people when we was there."

"_Sehr gut_, then you were paying attention. Call."

They both laid out their cards.

"Damn, you won." Logan looked vaguely surprised. "Deal, and this time keep yer tail where I can see it."

Kurt flipped his tail onto the table with a nasty look, twitching the end irritably. "Satisfied?"

The cards flew out and the room was quiet for a few moments before the bets were placed once again.

"There more I don't know?" Logan asked, looking across the table over the top of his cards.

"Highly likely."

"Raise you ten. Drake was an X-Man in your world a long time, ain't that right?"

"_Ja_. I raise by another thirty." Kurt laid his money on the table.

Logan frowned and matched the bet, drawing two cards. "Was he a good friend?"

"_Ja_. Pass me another beer."

"I been doin' what I do a long time. Damn hard call sometimes when it's a friend."

"I am not you. Call."

With narrowed eyes, Logan watched the other man gather his winnings again.

"Give 'em here. I'm dealin' this time."

Kurt curled his lip into a toothy smile and passed the deck of cards over.

"Of course."

Logan popped the top off of another beer and studied the cards in this hand.

"I start with fifty this time."

"Yer gonna lose this time." Logan grinned ferally, putting his money down.

Kurt shrugged in apparent unconcern and asked for two cards.

"You know, I spent a helluva lot of my time huntin' folks down that pissed me off."

"Raise by another fifty." Kurt casually threw the notes on the pile.

"Somebody tried to tell me a while ago that there comes a time you gotta balance it, ya know? Quit makin' the rage all there is in life. Ain't like I listened, but it was good advice."

Kurt eyed him before taking another card. "Well, anger und revenge are all I have left to call my own, _mein Freund_."

Doing the same, Logan answered, "Ain't gotta be that way, Elf. Like I told Jeannie - the Jeannie from yer world - you got a chance ta start over here. Raise you ten."

Kurt chose to allow the 'Elf' to slip by this time. "Und what did she answer you?"

"Said she had stuff to do there, that it wasn't for her. But yer here."

"You know why I'm here. What you ask is for me to change the man I am."

"No, I'm just sayin' you can have a life other than revenge. More'n that. You got a choice. Check."

"Now who is stalling? Give me a card." Kurt added the new card in, his eyes half-closed in contemplation. "_Nein,_ Logan, I do not have a choice any longer. The man I might have been, should circumstances have been different, is long gone. What you see is what remains."

"I used to think that way. Maybe I still do, maybe not. I ain't give up the idea of there bein' hope for somethin' different, I reckon. Them kids at the school have been showin' me that."

"Good for you. Call." Kurt chuckled as the cards were shown.

"Dammit, yer cheatin'!"

"Perhaps I am just better at this game than you, _ja?"_

"The hell you say!" Logan glared. Looking disgruntled, he opened another beer, passing one over to Kurt as well.

"Another game?"

"Hell no, I'm broke now, thanks to you."

Kurt smiled and pocketed his winnings.

"Look, I ain't tryin' ta lecture you or nothin', I'm just sayin' there's maybe hope for folks that want it."

"What makes you think I want it? Vielleicht ist Freiden nicht mein Ding. " Kurt stood and lifted his drink in a farewell gesture. "_Guten Nacht, _Logan. I enjoyed winning your money."

Logan shook his head. "'Night, Kurt. We're set fer Madripoor at seven a.m. tomorrow."

Kurt lay awake for a long while that night, thinking of the day to come. He thought of finally confronting Bobby and making him pay for what he'd done. He'd lain awake in a similar fashion many nights, tormented with the idea that Drake would escape him and profit from his treachery. But tomorrow, finally, there would be some closure, one way or the other.

As the silent darkness surrounded him like a blanket, he also thought of what Logan had said about starting over, and about the hope of a future. _What is hope? _ _Hope means I'll find those I seek, and exact retribution before I die._ He was the product of his life, nothing would change that, whatever sentimental thoughts the other man might have voiced. For things to be different, he'd have to go back in time and avoid that wave that had started him on this path so long ago. _And where is the hope in that?_

Kurt's mind drifted to sunbeams on a wooden floor and he finally dozed off with the faint sound of _Liebestraum _echoing in his memory.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Epilogue**_

_Several weeks later, New Orleans, Louisiana_

It was late afternoon as a shrieking infant temporarily topped decibel levels at the free health clinic buried deep within the French Quarter. His irate cries were eventually absorbed by a cacophony of other noises, however. Two women who worked the streets, if their manner of dress was any indication, were having a heated argument in the center row of plastic chairs set up to accommodate waiting patients. A junkie in the throws of withdrawal was yelling for his methadone at top volume. Wearing a look of beaten submission, a mother tried to control the behavior of four active children. A handful of winos had made their beds in various places on the linoleum floor and a homeless schizophrenic apparently off his medication shouted at one wall. The smell of disinfectant didn't quite cover up stronger odors of sweat and unwashed bodies. Stifling in the heat and humidity despite ceiling fans, this was not the most pleasant place to be. It was a typical day here.

The clinic, dubbed with the unlikely name of "Caring Hearts Family Medical Clinic," had been established by local charities to deal with members of society who had no where else to turn. The ones who were uninsured or uninsurable, the homeless, the destitute, the ones on the edge of the law, even the rare mutant still left in the world - in other words, the denizens of any American inner city that no one else wanted to deal with. It was a catch all for almost any medical situation, though it was intended only for non-emergent care. That was a like a bad joke. If a man was injured trying to move illegal merchandise on the street, did his girlfriend carry him to the local hospital where the police might show up and ask uncomfortable questions, or did she drag him in here, where he could get stitched up and go home? As a result, the clinic often seemed more like an emergency room than a doctor's office, complete with a triage nurse making the rounds amidst waiting patients. Staff here were also on a first name basis with the area's coroner and had the ambulance service on speed dial.

Already today they had dealt with a shooting victim, the aftermath of several nasty fights, an OD and a hysterical rape victim. That was in addition to the normal flow of colds, flu, STD's, pregnancies, chronic conditions and minor injuries that were constants in such a place.

The clinic was maintained by two nurses and an LPN who doubled as a receptionist. A doctor came in during the morning hours. Local authorities visited regularly, but were only guaranteed cooperation if the doctor was actually in. The nurses all had an unspoken agreement with one another to answer police questions vaguely, if at all, depending on the wishes of the patient. Even the flotsam and jetsam of society needed a safe place to receive medical care, no questions asked.

The particular nurse on triage duty today stood up from examining a little boy with an injured arm. She stretched her aching back and smiled down at him. The boy's arm wasn't broken. If this had been morning, and Dr. Thomas were here, he would have insisted the boy be taken for x-rays at the local hospital - an expense this family could ill afford. She knew an x-ray was unnecessary and the child would be fine with a bandage and sling for a few days.

The nurse kept her eye out for blood, bodily fluids and obviously mangled body parts, but otherwise examined the waiting patients in a first come, first serve order. Some she was able to treat and send on their way without them ever having to go back to the examining room. Of course, whether she was _supposed_ to do that or not was another story, but the only one who ever said anything to her about it was the good doctor and that was when he deigned to show up to work sober. Her fellow nurses took it in stride; if it helped the patients, it was all right by them.

It just went to show that there was a place for everyone, even someone like her. Certainly no place other than one of such desperation, on the edge of society, would hire an obvious mutant. Here, though, she had developed a reputation with the regulars and they trusted her.

Her genetic gift was not the flashy kind; not like the larger-than-life heroes and villains that so regularly appeared on the evening news. She just had a sense of things, a diagnostic sense as well as some type of psychometry that seemed to go with it. She could touch someone and know exactly what ailed him. She could hold an object and pick up information about the owner, even including a location sometimes. The first aided her tremendously in her line of work. The second was a glorified party trick to her way of thinking, that friends and co-workers found amusing. Though she _had_ helped to find not only lost pets, but wayward spouses and even a lost child or two in her time. Mostly, people just wanted her to use it to find those who owed them something.

An hour or so later, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of an arm, she pushed her dark curls behind her ears and looked up to see a mostly empty room. She was more than ready to go home, then put her feet up for the rest of the evening and watch CSI re-runs. It had been a long day.

Beverly, the LPN, was just helping the last drunk to the exit, and Sam, the hallucinating schizophrenic, had finally calmed down after his meds were given - he could go now as well. She tried not to think about the poor man spending the night sleeping next to Lake Ponchartrain. There was no use worrying; she'd learned long ago she could only do so much to help. That left only the quiet fellow in the corner who'd waved her away several times over the past couple of hours to the more obviously needy (or vocal) occupants.

He was the picture of patience, she'd give him that. She couldn't imagine voluntarily sitting in this madhouse for so long with nothing to do but wait. He wasn't dressed like most of the people who came through here, either. _I wonder if he's an undercover cop or something?_ That would be just her luck, when she was already so tired.

She made her way over to him, smiling her everything-will-be-all-right nurse's smile. _Jeez, the guy could at least try not to stare, _she groused to herself. Most people gave her that courtesy. Sure, she might be a bit funny looking, but there was no need to be rude about it.

"You're the last one left, there's no shooing me away this time," she grinned down at him in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, clipboard in hand. "So what hurts? What can I do for you?"

He looked up at her, unsmiling, for what seemed like a long time. _Oh God, tell me I haven't landed a crackpot or a mutie basher at closing time,_ she thought.

"Why nothing." He finally smiled, and she relaxed a little.

_Okay, so maybe he's just a lost tourist or something; stranger things have happened in the Big Easy._ "Wow, you sound like you're a _long_ way from home. That's not an accent we hear around here a lot. Is it German?"

He shrugged and nodded.

"Now what did you mean, _nothing _is wrong?" she propped a hand on her hip, "You've been sitting there for hours. Surely you don't consider our little facility a tourist destination..." She waved the hand holding the clipboard in a sarcastic gesture that encompassed the peeling walls, stained ceiling and cheap plastic chairs that littered the waiting room.

The corner of his mouth twitched in another half-smile. "In part, I was simply seeking to escape from the heat outside. I came in here because the door was open and no one would try to force me to buy drinks or some other rubbish if I sat here," he tilted his head slightly and quirked an eyebrow, "Or will you now try und convince me to purchase a key fob or undergarments with the city's name displayed on them?"

She chuckled in spite of her fatigue. "No, I don't have any plastic doohickies or lingerie for sale today, your loss though. But you said _in part_. What was the other part?"

Kneeling down to face him, she added, "Here, I can at least check you for signs of heat exhaustion, though you look okay to me." Laying her clipboard aside, she took his wrist, and moved to measure his pulse. But rather than the smooth skin she'd expected to feel under her fingertips, there was what felt like velvet. Her internal sense clicked on and allowed her to see the truth of the man before her. Her eyes widened and locked with his gleaming red ones.

* * *

><p>Kurt knew exactly when she really "saw" him. Her liquid black eyes fastened on his gaze and didn't waver. There was no fear. This petite nurse would probably stare down Apocalypse himself, if her behavior today was any indication.<p>

He had debated with himself for weeks before deciding to find this particular mutant. With the very limited X-gene population remaining in this world, it had not been difficult to do, once he'd made up his mind. The X-Men had a database linked with a machine referred to as "Cerebra" that pinpointed most of the mutants left, and even categorized them by powers, when possible. All told, it had taken very little effort on his part to locate this one.

He'd been watching her for hours now. He had listened to her banter with the patients, scold them or sometimes offer comfort. She'd stepped in to stop an imminent fight between two teen-aged street thugs without batting an eye, though they'd both towered over her. _She's so sure of herself, _Kurt thought._ She seems to truly enjoy helping these unfortunate souls._ He very gently removed his wrist from her grasp.

"I am not suffering from heat exhaustion, though I thank you for your concern." He smiled at her, attempting to avoid showing too many teeth. "However, Sydney, I could perhaps use your assistance with something."

Her name came out sounding like "Zytney." She looked at him quizzically.

"Uhm...how did you know my name?"

Kurt pointed to the name tag pinned to the front of her scrubs and his lip twitched again with amusement.

"Ha! Silly me, of course." She shifted on one foot and cocked her head to the side with a slight smile. "So what exactly do you think I can assist you with Mr...?"

"My name is Kurt Darkholme, und I am looking for someone. I understand you might be able to help me find him."

Sydney raised an eyebrow skeptically. "What, does he owe you money or something?"

"_Nein_, nothing like that. He und I are simply old friends. I'm eager to see him again."

_Very eager to see him_, Kurt thought grimly, but kept his expression pleasant.

"What makes you think I can help?"

"Now Schatzi, we mutants have to stick together, _ja_? There are so few of us now. You have something of a reputation for helping those in need und I'd hoped you would be willing to help me."

She looked away from him, contemplating, then met his eyes again. "All right. Sure, why not? Do you have something that belongs to him?"

"_Ja_, indeed I do." He handed her a stained and crumpled piece of paper. "Can you tell me where the man is who wrote this note?"

He watched in fascination as the markings on her skin pulsed and flickered with an eerie light while she concentrated on finding the owner of the paper.

* * *

><p>Sydney couldn't quite read the expression on the man's face once she'd told him what she could. He seemed to be struggling to keep whatever he was feeling hidden. She experienced a flicker of doubt, but squelched it. <em>A lot of people get emotional at the prospect of finding a long-lost friend, right?<em>

Finally, he moved to rise, and she stood up as well, still watching him. It looked as though he'd gotten his thoughts under control when he smiled gently down at her.

"You do good work here, it is very noble."

Bemused, she answered, "I'm not sure how noble it is - it sure doesn't feel very noble when I have to hose down a drunk in the shower room or mop up somebody's recycled dinner or argue with another kid to take a pack of condoms." She grinned then, her eyes bright with humor.

He reached towards her, then hesitated. "Trust me, what you do is noble _meine mitfühlende Frau. _You give caring und hope to those who have none," He made a grand gesture to indicate himself before continuing, "Including this wayward stranger who has kept you well after hours. " He let his hand drop back to his side.

The woman looked around and realized he was right, it was left to her to lock up for the night. He was already to the door by the time she looked back.

Joining him there, she had an overwhelming need to say _something_, but she didn't know what or even why she felt like she should. This whole conversation seemed surreal. Finally she asked said, "I'm sorry I couldn't help more. I hope you'll be able to find your friend soon. Are you sure there's nothing else you need?"

He stood with one hand on the door and gazed at her with an extended pause before answering, "_Ja, _there is little doubt I will find him. Und I am well enough." He inclined his head to her. "But as you said earlier, I am a long way from home; I must be going."

"Well alright then. It was... uhm...nice talking to you..." she held her hand up in a little wave and he surprised her by taking it and bringing it to his lips. _Wow! I didn't know there was anyone who really did that sort of thing! _

She found herself watching thoughtfully until he disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. _Definitely diary material_. Retrieving her purse from her locker, she pulled the shades and locked the door behind her. Now it was time to go home to Juno the cat and forensic drama shows.

* * *

><p>It was warm and balmy, as was common in New Orleans at this time of year. A scent of rain was carried on the breeze, mixing pleasantly with wild jasmine and the rich green dankness from the wild foliage hanging over the side-walk.<p>

The strains of an old song, probably from one of the many cafés that littered the neighborhood, filled the night air:

_*I look inside myself and see my heart is black_

_I see my red door and must have it painted black_

_Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts_

_It's not easy facin' up when your whole world is black_

"_Gute nacht Mausi_," Kurt said softly from the shadows, as he watched her walk away.

* * *

><p>*the lyrics are from a song by the Rolling Stones called <em>"Paint it Black"<em>

_German translations:_

_Fräulein - a word corresponding to "Miss". It denotes either a young woman or an unmarried woman. (It is considered somewhat old-fashioned in places, but is still in use.)_

_Frau - a word corresponding to the English "Mrs." It can mean a woman or a wife. _

_Liebling - "Sweetheart" or "Darling"_

_Gute nacht Mausi - "Good night Little Mouse"_


End file.
